Start Again
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: His voice. It had to have been his voice.


_For Sam, so she'll quit her bitchin. And thanks to Mel for the beta._

_"You're better than you think so  
something I hold on to  
I'm better too holding on to you  
if we can clear the way..."_

_Start Again, Duncan Sheik  
_

* * *

His voice. 

It had to have been his voice. From a man with such a bulk, such a strong jaw, she would have expected a deep, resonating, booming voice born somewhere towards the back of his chest. But when he spoke, the syllables were gentle and precise. It didn't seem, however, that he had to think before he spoke as most people did but rather had a way of manifesting the perfect, most evenly paced sentence. A simple, eloquent litany of words trailed from him, slick off of his lips to her ears.

She felt as though he was speaking just for her and like a captive audience to a storyteller, she was under a heavy spell.

She liked it when he would turn down the lights in the auditorium so they could see the slides. With the absence of light, she uncoiled and allowed herself the indulgence of falling simply and blindly into the cadence of his tone, just to catalogue the feeling of being pulled deliciously under.

When he had hurriedly gathered his notes and asked her if she wanted to join him for a drink she had to remind herself that she was a twenty-four year old woman and yes, yes, _yes_ she would get a drink with him. Hand on her back, he had led her away, whispering as he glanced over his shoulder. "Dean's still looking for my syllabus; wouldn't be a problem except I have yet to write one." The words came quick, conspiratorially and they made a smart little grin tip her lips towards the heavens.

They were in on something together.

His car was a class act; a fine, sleek beast that made a person want to run two fingers over the hood just to feel the cool metal hum. S Class Mercedes, a sort of ride that was classic and sexy without being pretentious. It was the sort of vehicle Sara could see herself getting naked and taking a ride in. Wiping that smart, smarmy thought from her mind, she climbed in when he opened the door for her, clutching her bundle of books to her chest as she did so.

There was no hiding the fact that she was clumsy, a bit too tall for her frame, and she swayed and nearly fell as she got in. Catching herself with an elbow on the armrest, her books scattered onto her lap. Her hair had fallen into her face and in the process of pushing it back, she turned to look at him.

A goofy little smile was on his face throwing off his age by about ten years, but it didn't throw him; he turned the key in the ignition and lit the fire beneath the kettle, the automobile humming merrily away as he pulled out of the massive university lot. Generally, she wouldn't have gotten into a car with a strange man after just a handful of meetings (and he was strange) but the investigator in her begged at her senses to ask questions and there were many as far as he was concerned.

Two evenings before it had taken him nearly three hours for him to complete his diagrams of the crime scene they had been discussing. They had stopped to grab a cup of coffee afterwards and then each went on their merry way. So drinks really weren't that much of a stretch and one couldn't properly call them drinks if they were had at a locale called Smitty's Spirits and certainly not if they consisted of a pitcher of the home-brewed stout.

But it was the perfect place to feel like you didn't expect anything and even better if you didn't really want anything. It was the perfect place to be surprised by things and Sara felt that she had saved up enough vouchers for a rather decent assault on her senses.

Inside the dim pub, he had to raise his voice in order to he heard and when he did so, the tendons on his neck stood out just a tad. Wavers filtered in on the fringes of his speech and Sara found herself leaning in to him to her fill of the words, the _words_.

The light was so low that she figured she could steal to the shadows still and detail the manner in which he candidly spoke, that there might be a secret in the tempo. She wanted an exacting set of adjectives to describe the set of his jaw and the hue of his lips.

Thick, acrid smoke burned her lungs with every breath and she craved a cigarette...

There was a pitcher of beer on the table and when he laughed the crisp vibrations would sing off of his fingers, across the table and make the liquid ripple. Surely he didn't mean to, but he was touching _everything_. Charming her was what he seemed to be doing, unbuttoning the cuffs of his faded, green dress shirt to roll up his sleeves. His right thumb absent-mindedly stroked the slicker side of the grimy salt shaker, his other drawing clear lines in the frost on his mug. Even unthinking, with no preempt or logic, his actions were smooth and deliberately precise. Doctor Grissom's swallow was long and thorough; the muscles in his neck working along with the articulate tongue and throat to swallow.

But under a spell-and very happy to be-she would gladly suffer a nicotine fit in order to longer subject herself to the sweet warmth that was licking up her spine. With one foot tucked under her, she leaned forward to grab the pitcher. Noticing her gesture, and like a good gentleman he reached out to perform the task and their hands brushed.

Oh yes, that sealed the deal for her.

Keeping his grip on the cool, cracked plastic handle, Sara pulled slowly back as though not trying to tempt a lion, or a tiger, or really any temptable sort of beast (as there really were many). "Thank you."

"You're welcome," they both watched as the head formed and clung to the lip of the mug. "What was I saying... ah yes!"

He continued speaking and she sat back and listened, bringing both of her legs up to sit Indian-style; she was settling in for as long as she could because truly, she had found something precious. Her shoulders slumped and her posture took on the frame of a person who didn't much care how the day treated her. And really, she didn't much care about anything either way at that moment, just wanted him to keep talking.

Two beers in and feeling too comfortable, she laid herself back in the corner of the booth and resigned herself to the quiet stories he chose to speak. There was a brilliant, pink sheen to her cheeks, cheeks which were curved up from the perk of her mouth. "I've never heard that," she would chime in; "Is that so?" she would question, just to hear him agree and press on.

After three hours of strangely-comfortable conversation, the pitcher was empty, the beer in their mugs warm and flat. "You're a superb conversational companion, Miss Sara Sidle," he said with just a touch of heat, a delightful red flush peppering the skin beneath his eyes.

It was in that moment that she knew the coquettish little minx in her could tempt him into bed but the tinge of navy in his eyes held promise for something more. "Likewise, Professor." A part of her hoped he would interject and suggest that he be called by his first name but when he sighed, smiled innocently and offered up a, "Just Grissom, please," her head fell in mute embarrassment.

This was the sort of man she could get herself into a lot of trouble loving and, she suspected, would.

"I suppose it would be best if we called it a night," he resigned, licking his lips and rolling his sleeves down to their proper position, rebuttoning and smoothing the fabric.

Sara swirled the dregs of her ale around in the thick mug for a moment before she allowed the evening to breakdown and she reached for her coat with speed. He reached it first, and like their hands over the pitcher earlier, she was sweetly shocked. A gentleman, he stood and tossed some wrinkled bills down on the worn tabletop; then, with an ease which only came from repeating a gesture many times, he held the garment out for her to slip into.

She did so, arms passing over the pressure of his fingers as she situated herself into her clothing. After pulling out her hair and zippering up she turned, face upturned to his. "Thank you," her voice wavered then, an embarrassing little slip of the vocal sort and she allowed her face to fall once more as a warm fissure of humiliation flowed through her.

"No need to thank me, the pleasure was all mine," and at that he allowed his lips to fall into a thin line, the implication of his statement filtering in. And she wanted to thank him again because the gesture, however small, meant the world to her in that moment.

"Share a cab?" she posed the question delicately as not to sound searching, but he declined.

"It's only a short distance to my hotel, I think I'd like the walk."

Sara smiled and tugged on her sleeve, "Well, I just need to get my things out of your car and I can take my leave of you," she said properly, humorously.

Back in the stale night air of a San Francisco spring, she once more gathered her books to her chest and attempted to make an appropriate sort of eye contact with him. "I guess... I'll see you next week, last class."

Grissom nodded, hands in the deep pockets of his suede jacket. "Before..." he began to say and thought better of it, pulling his hands hastily out of his pockets to snatch his wallet from the back of his pants. "I'd like you to call me," he said as he plucked a heavy, printed business card out of the folds. "If there's anything you would like to... if there's anything we could speak about."

The letters and numbers shined and glinted in the soft light being cast by the streetlamp. Sara smiled and passed her thumb over the small rectangle. Grissom lifted a hand for a taxi and waited for her to react.

"Okay," she said eventually, simply, and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.

She nodded, he nodded and when the yellow car pulled up she was reluctant to leave. Wanting to stay, drop her books and just make something more of the moment, Sara bit her lip and swallowed hard realizing that something very big had just happened to her.

With a wink, he stepped back and her body folded itself into the car without another word, her head not daring to turn and watch his figure dwarf as she drove off down the long street.

Riding back to her apartment, his business card warm in her pocket, she allowed her psyche to torture herself for the fact that she had already memorized his phone number.


End file.
